I can see how Atticus Finch goosestepping and heiling might have been off-putting to contemporary audiences. But while Gregory Peck can't exactly be called an actor with range, he does make one hell of an impression as the fanatical Josef Mengele.
Or maybe he's just enjoying the opportunity to let loose. Everyone else seems to be.
Mengele's plan to birth clones of Hitler is a beyond loopy premise, but director Franklin Schaffner - several years removed from the similarly heightened worlds of Planet of the Apes and Patton - plays it with as straight a face as he can muster, at least until the next utterly mad thing happens. He's aided immeasurably by Jerry Goldsmith's bombastic score, which has all the pomp and absurdity to lift this into the realm of near-satire.
It also helps that there's an excellent cast in on the joke. Damn near every scene features at least one "it" actor from classic British cinema (there's Tim Burton's Alfred! There's Marcus Brody!) who sell the material with everything they have. The biggest draw is, of course, Sir Laurence Olivier as a wry, aging Nazi hunter determined to see Mengele stopped (the polar opposite of his previous role in Marathon Man). The film's worst misstep, albeit out of necessity, is to have its two stars meet only once and, while Peck comes out swinging with his ham bone, Olivier is rendered nearly silent.
Okay, I jest. In truth, however, it becomes clear after a while that the cast and crew's commitment isn't enough to do justice to the plot. There are too many moving parts, too many (underdeveloped) characters, and in its struggle to fit all this in two hours the film occasionally loses some of its mad energy and becomes merely functional. James Mason suffers the most in this regard; his role is practically an extended cameo and all he really does is tell Peck off for being reckless again and again. The third act in particular feels truncated, as if a lot of story material had to be handwaved away just to keep things coherent. It's not that the film could have used more time to tell its story, it's that it probably should have had a little less story to tell.
Still, overstuffed is hardly a sin worth condemning a film for, particularly one as agreeably off-kilter as this. It's the kind of prestige picture that doesn't often get made anymore, and for that alone it carves out a specific little niche in film history.
Or maybe he's just enjoying the opportunity to let loose. Everyone else seems to be.
Mengele's plan to birth clones of Hitler is a beyond loopy premise, but director Franklin Schaffner - several years removed from the similarly heightened worlds of Planet of the Apes and Patton - plays it with as straight a face as he can muster, at least until the next utterly mad thing happens. He's aided immeasurably by Jerry Goldsmith's bombastic score, which has all the pomp and absurdity to lift this into the realm of near-satire.
It also helps that there's an excellent cast in on the joke. Damn near every scene features at least one "it" actor from classic British cinema (there's Tim Burton's Alfred! There's Marcus Brody!) who sell the material with everything they have. The biggest draw is, of course, Sir Laurence Olivier as a wry, aging Nazi hunter determined to see Mengele stopped (the polar opposite of his previous role in Marathon Man). The film's worst misstep, albeit out of necessity, is to have its two stars meet only once and, while Peck comes out swinging with his ham bone, Olivier is rendered nearly silent.
Okay, I jest. In truth, however, it becomes clear after a while that the cast and crew's commitment isn't enough to do justice to the plot. There are too many moving parts, too many (underdeveloped) characters, and in its struggle to fit all this in two hours the film occasionally loses some of its mad energy and becomes merely functional. James Mason suffers the most in this regard; his role is practically an extended cameo and all he really does is tell Peck off for being reckless again and again. The third act in particular feels truncated, as if a lot of story material had to be handwaved away just to keep things coherent. It's not that the film could have used more time to tell its story, it's that it probably should have had a little less story to tell.
Still, overstuffed is hardly a sin worth condemning a film for, particularly one as agreeably off-kilter as this. It's the kind of prestige picture that doesn't often get made anymore, and for that alone it carves out a specific little niche in film history.